But Phoebe stood still, possessed by something that had no right to do so. Silver was a killer. Sweat prickled at her feet: A telltale sign of being somewhere new and high, of climbing. What was it that she wanted, exactly? What was she feeling? Fear? Hate? No, it was curiosity. That deep chasm yawned before her. It crooned that there was another option, beckoning her with all her immortality to abandon the plan and jump.

Her awkward mumble, a near-whisper, surprised both of them.

“Do it again.”

Silver lunged, giving her no chance to regret the decision. In an instant she was pinned against the tilted cypress. Gnarled roots cushioned her, she was enveloped between them and him. Her gaze darted from his claws to the lake and back again. She’d always been the patient who couldn’t help watching the needle go in.

His thumbs slid against her ribs as he gripped the edges of her once-again gaping wound. A whimper escaped her mouth as he began spreading it wider. Of course that’s where he would start. Phoebe felt the burn of blood spilling over her skirt. This time she didn’t push him away. The touches were slow, methodical, as though he were picking up where he’d left off. He explored the threshold which he’d been forced into, and which he’d taken refuge on the other side of.

Moving down, Silver took in both of their scents where the skin had been torn open. A low rumble made her look down, and she found him looking up at her, his skeletal jaws--she swore he was grinning--partially submerged in viscera. He was purring and clicking his teeth as he prodded at her.